April 7, 2004: “It is best not to disclaim any low motives…”

It is best not to disclaim any low motives for one’s
criticism and embitterment with the forces of ignorance and unbridled
commerce, and I must leave it to others to discover the base reasons
for my dismay and with the e-mob that lays claim to the portals
of the brave new world. I have already aired out my chagrin that
Gerard Jones’ long-awaited (at least by his family members) novel,
Ginny Good, has scarcely attracted any attention except
by the astute and outspoken Ed Champion at his web log, The
Return of the Reluctant.

Now comes a great, perhaps greater, crime against good sense and
compelling literature. To whit, the complete disregard and roaring
silence about the publication in the New Yorker, 29 March
issue, of Jim Harrison’s short story, "Father Daughter."
I will be, of course, sending out indignant e-missives (not by design,
but I am certain my fury at this gross violation of literary common
sense will shine through) to those of my acquaintances who have
weblogs, for some explanations for their derelictions. One can only
hope that there will have been a significant attitudinal correction
to greet the publication of Harrison’s new novel, True North.

Harrison’s story is set at a small bistro in Colorado Springs where
Norton and his daughter Laura are having lunch. Norton has recently
done a nine-month bit for tax evasion, which apparently has left
him with 80% of his substantial assets intact. He is divorced from
Laura’s environmental lobbyist mother, and this story is about his
longing for connection with his college-age daughter and the clues
we get as to why the relationship might be as tenuous as it is seems
to be in the context of this story. Told with Jim Harrison’s trademark
off-handed good humor, "Father Daughter" is a bittersweet
tale which resonates with the commanding characteristic for which
I prize Harrison’s writing and world view, his great, big hearted
humanity:

By the time he hit the noxious traffic of Denver, he had become
contemptuous of his own muddiness. There was nothing like family
to throw you off-kilter. His parents had been bitterly disappointed
at his divorce. His mother had told him that she was ashamed of
him, and his father, suspecting infidelity as a cause, had droned,
"Son, it’s better to climb the same mountain a hundred times
than a hundred different mountains." This kind of otiose country
wisdom had always baffled him, and he thought of dreary church potluck
suppers, where the strident problems of the outside world were dismissed
with a chuckle.

To my way of thinking, almost any paragraph is quotable, and I
was tempted to cite the story’s final one, but least someone stumble
over this buried journal and feel moved to find this story, I will
leave them the joy of that discovery.